


my soul pointed at you and whispered to my heart

by garbagebabybarnes



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, background ballins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22179361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garbagebabybarnes/pseuds/garbagebabybarnes
Summary: When Joe is seven, just eleven days after his birthday, a name appears above his heart - dark and beautiful, with perfect loops in the script.Mustafa Ali.He doesn’t know anyone namedMustafa, but his mother tells him that this person - just born, if all the stories ofsoulmatesare true, that the name of the match to one’s heart will appear the moment the younger is born - will be “the one” for Joe, when they’re older. She doesn’t tell him how they’ll meet or when - who could know? - but she reassures him that they’ll be the best of friends, and that their friendship will hopefully grow.“Grow into what?” he asks, all the curiosity of a seven-year-old in his voice.His mama pats his head, brushes his thick hair back from his eyes, tutting about a haircut. “You don’t think about that right now,” she tells him and kisses him on his forehead, the way she does when she’s checking to see if he has a temperature. “Soulmates are a rare gift, baby; all you should know, for now, is that you should treasure this Mustafa, always.”
Relationships: Finn Balor | Prince Devitt/Seth Rollins | Tyler Black, Mustafa Ali/Samoa Joe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	my soul pointed at you and whispered to my heart

When Joe is seven, just eleven days after his birthday, a name appears above his heart - dark and beautiful, with perfect loops in the script.

_Mustafa Ali._

He doesn’t know anyone named _Mustafa,_ but his mother tells him that this person - just born, if all the stories of _soulmates_ are true, that the name of the match to one’s heart will appear the moment the younger is born - will be “the one” for Joe, when they’re older. She doesn’t tell him how they’ll meet or when - who could know? - but she reassures him that they’ll be the best of friends, and that their friendship will hopefully grow.

“Grow into what?” he asks, all the curiosity of a seven-year-old in his voice.

His mama pats his head, brushes his thick hair back from his eyes, tutting about a haircut. “You don’t think about that right now,” she tells him and kisses him on his forehead, the way she does when she’s checking to see if he has a temperature. “Soulmates are a rare gift, baby; all you should know, for now, is that you should treasure this Mustafa, always.”

*

By the time Joe is in high school, he still is the only kid in his grade to have a Soul Name - or, at least, that he knows of. Soul Names are private things, his mother told him, so many years ago - something to be proud of, but not flaunt. Horror stories from celebrities fooled by fans, the heartbreaking fallout when the lies find the light, as well as news coverage of True Names trapping hapless victims in abusive relationships, usually ending horribly - they’ve all put everyone off, forced the Soul Names into a silent sort of pleasure, knowing that there is someone in the world the universe has decided is the perfect fit.

He’s thirteen, and he feels guilty that he wants to kiss the pretty girl with the flowing blonde hair who sits in front of him in Algebra.

He’s fourteen, and he hates himself for saying _no_ to her when she asks if he’d like to go see the _Jurassic Park_ movie that’s just come out.

He’s fifteen, and he wants to claw the Name from his chest when he starts playing football, has to shower when everyone else is gone.

He’s seventeen and wants to scream when he tells a cute boy he can’t date him. (Finn has only just turned fifteen, so Joe wouldn’t have said _yes,_ even without the Name - but he resents it for making him feel _obligated_ to deny the young Irishman with the bright smile and eyes the color of the clearest sea. Finn doesn’t take his rejection personally, doesn’t get the Sad Eyes Joe is expecting, only tells him that he’d still like to hang out, if Joe’s up for it. He’s Joe’s first and truest best friend - not that Joe will ever give the younger the satisfaction of knowing that.)

When he’s eighteen, he grows fed up with waiting - _waiting_ for someone who may never even come into his life. He _hates_ everything about the _Name History_ class he is forced to take in order to graduate. (The course is a blanket requirement for each senior class, a way to be certain no one has to be singled out as a Named, as well as to spread the general knowledge to others.)

Finn is the first person, after his mother, Joe says the words to.

“I have a Name.”

Finn doesn’t play stupid, doesn’t state the obvious with _everyone has a name, jackass._ He stares at Joe for a moment, two, three-

-and strips off his shirt, right in the middle of Joe’s bedroom.

“What the fuck are you-”

There are letters, messy and small and scrawled almost illegibly over Finn’s heart.

_Seth Rollins._

“They came up when I was about five,” Finn tells him, scratching absentmindedly at the words. “My mum told me a little about the history of Soul Names - but as I was only four, she just left it at _you’ll love them, some day.”_ His lips quirk, the slightest smile spreading over them. “It’s foolish, I suppose, but I like to think about what Seth’s like, why she’s so certain - even now - that I’ll love this person. Oddly enough,” he says, snorting, “I think they’ll be a bit like you - and don’t you let that go to your head, asshole,” he adds as Joe smirks. “I mean so in the _stubborn_ sense - a head as thick as a concrete wall.” Ducking as Joe swipes one big hand at him, Finn laughs, the sound lightening the tension Joe hasn’t felt until that moment, his shoulders loosening, his body relaxing.

“Bastard.”

(Joe never tells Finn his Name; despite his resentment, despite Finn offering up his own, it still feels like a private thing, something Joe should keep to himself. Finn never pushes, never once brings it up afterward, and Joe wonders if he’ll ever be able to express how thankful he is to Finn for letting him know he isn’t alone.)

*

Joe hasn’t gone to a school function, other than his football games ( _bloody football, my arse,_ scowls Finn, _you barely even touch the ball with your feet_ ), since he’s entered high school, and the “prom” in his last year is no exception; nothing involved in it is in Joe’s interests, so he’s simply never paid mind to even the thought of attending.

This is his senior year, though, and one person won’t hear of him missing it.

“You and Finn can go together,” his mother insists; she’s been tossing out names for the last five minutes.

“Mama,” Joe sighs, a little of his exasperation showing itself; the look his mother shoots him quickly quells it. “First: I’m not suffering through that conversation with that Irish idiot.” A narrow-eyed frown of admonishment. “Second: I have no interest in anything that involves putting me in that school longer than football does.”

Portia bites her lip, inhales sharply. “Joseph.”

_Ah, here we go._

“I think I- I think I must have given you the wrong impression.”

Not what he was expecting. “About what?”

She moves her chair closer to him, places her hand over his shirt, directly over his heart - over his Name.

“About Mustafa; about what to do while you wait to meet them.”

It’s always _startling_ to hear his soulmate’s name aloud. (His mother rarely ever says it. Joe never does, not anymore; it feels _wrong_ , since Joe resents the presence of the beautifully written Name more often than he appreciates it.) Joe lifts an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“I feel that- I know I didn’t do a very good job at explaining, when you were younger, and you may have taken-” His mother sits back in her seat, runs a hand through her hair, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, they’re glossy, wet with unshed tears, and Joe feels a sudden jolt in his gut; in eighteen years, he’s rarely ever seen her close to tears, and he’s never liked seeing her cry. “I don’t want you to think you’re not supposed to live your life while you wait for your Named.”

“Mama.” She takes a deep breath, shuddering as Joe leans in to lay his hand over hers on their small kitchen table. “I don’t think…” he begins, but trails off because - he realizes - perhaps he _does_. He remembers the sweet blonde who had the courage to ask him to a movie; Finn, who Joe felt he had no choice but to deny.

“Oh, honey,” his mother murmurs, her free hand rising and cupping his cheek, thumb smoothing over his cheekbone. She presses a kiss to his forehead, just like she had all those many years ago, the day his Name first appeared. “Treasure your Soul Name,” she tells him once more, “but don’t think you can’t be happy with someone else in the time before you meet your Mustafa.”

*

(He and Finn end up at Joe’s prom together, matching turquoise ties and boutonnières, his mother and Finn’s gushing and taking photo after photo, despite Joe and Finn insisting that there be no evidence, with Finn’s father behind the two women, laughing and enjoying their pain.)

*

When he’s twenty-five, shoved on the lowest rung of a career he’s just now realizing he may not want to be in, a new coffeehouse, _Cesaro’s,_ opens up around the corner from his place. He’s a black coffee kind of guy - no sugar, no frills, no crash - but his coffee maker is broken, having released its last gasp of life the morning before, and he’d been too tired when he’d left work to go buy another, so to the coffeehouse he goes.

The barista - a kid, probably around eighteen or nineteen, Joe estimates from the soft baby fat still clinging to his face - is alone behind the counter, a bright smile (too bright, too goddamn _cheery_ for any time before eight in the morning; it reminds him of Finn) shining at Joe. He’s a cute kid, with the deepest mahogany eyes Joe has ever seen on anyone, beautiful and alight with a soft curiosity as he looks Joe up and down.

“What can I get you, sir?”

If the barista were any older, Joe might give thought to the drawn out once-over, to the tongue flicking out to lick at pouty lips, but the kid is just that - _a kid_ \- and so Joe merely quirks his lips at the attempt, lifts an eyebrow as he gives his order. “Just a black coffee. Whatever size is the largest you have.”

Pretty brown eyes make their way back up to Joe’s own dark ones before the kid hums softly and nods, looking away and tapping on the tablet connected to the register, taking Joe’s money as it’s offered, a pleased smile gracing his lips when Joe tosses the extra bills into the tip jar.

“Name?”

Joe lifts one eyebrow at him, then glances around the otherwise empty shop.

A cheeky grin crinkles the corners of those doe eyes. “It’s part of my job,” he claims, his smile so wide, Joe glimpses a charming little gap between his front teeth. “It makes people feel welcome in a normally hectic environment. Names forge a small connection between people.”

Joe calls bullshit, a snort making his thoughts known, but he says anyway, “Joe.”

The kid’s smile grows, that goddamn gap making him appear even younger than he probably is. “I’m Seth.”

_(A small connection, indeed.)_

*

Joe doesn’t mention the kid with the first half of Finn’s Name to the pale bastard that day or the next few days. He isn’t _certain_ the boy is Finn’s Named, after all, and he doesn’t want the idiot to get his hopes up (though no force on Earth will ever have Joe admit that he’s, just possibly, _protecting_ the other man).

Finn is at Joe’s door three weeks from that Sunday, though, letting himself in with the key Joe had once given him _for emergencies, you dick,_ teeth flashing in an unapologetic grin as he heads into the kitchen. The bigger man feels an _immense_ amount of satisfaction at the displeased expression on the Irishman’s face when, ten seconds later, Finn pops his head back out to scowl at Joe.

“What’ve you done to the coffeemaker? There’s no coffee.”

“First of all,” Joe tells him, lifting a finger, “this is not a coffee shop.” A second finger goes up. “Secondly, it died; I laid it to rest in the dumpster, where it belongs.” The third finger rises, then lowers with the first, leaving only the middle, making Finn snort. “Third, there’s an _actual_ coffeehouse around the corner now.”

Finn looks unimpressed. “You hate coffeehouses, so why haven’t you bought a new one?” A smirk begins to tug at his lips. “Unless there’s a reason you _want_ to go there.”

Rolling his eyes, Joe says, “Yeah. _Coffee._ ” He doesn’t mention the kid, doesn’t want to bring him up just yet because he isn’t _sure_ and he-

Finn is donning his leather jacket, left across Joe’s ottoman from a night of alcohol and sparring weeks before, and holding out his arms, gesturing to the door. “Well,” he grins, full of cheek, “let’s go get some _coffee_ then.”

 _You can’t go, yet; not until I’m sure,_ Joe thinks, but Finn is already out the door, and Joe can do nothing except follow the inevitable.

*

Seth is behind the counter again ( _of course,_ Joe thinks, sighing to himself) only it’s Sunday and in the middle of the church-goers rush, so he only gets a chance to offer that wide smile that shows off the gap between his teeth before a new customer (a woman who has inexplicably chosen to wear _cat ears_ in public) snags his attention, politely requesting a too-sweet blend of caramel and mocha that makes Joe cringe.

“Ah,” Finn hums, nudging Joe with his shoulder as he nods at Seth. “So that’s it.”

Scoffing, Joe smacks the back of the shorter man’s head, earning a wince and a scowl. “Don’t start with me,” he tells him.

Finn chuckles, a crooked grin gracing his too-red lips. “He’s cute,” he says, nodding toward the boy again, and there’s something in his voice, a tone that Joe can’t quite place; the shorter man is focused on Seth, his gaze that of a wolf that has spotted a lone doe in a clearing. “I can see why you like ‘the coffee’ here.”

Joe sighs, bringing his hand up, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. “That’s not-”

“Seth!” A cute brunette with an impossibly high and askew ponytail pokes her head out from the door hiding the small kitchen from the patrons’ view. “Um, we might need a _tiny_ bit of help; I think Sasha murdered the oven.”

“I did _not_ ,” grumbles a voice from further inside the kitchen, the speaker out of view. “It’s just _not working_.” The distinct sound of a hand smacking the side of an appliance is heard.

Ponytail closes her eyes and takes a deep breath; it seems to Joe that she’s attempting to force back a smile.

“Sure thing, Bay,” Seth snickers. “Take over here, will you?” he asks, brushing by the girl, another _smack_ from ‘Sasha’ reaching Joe’s ears before the door swings shut.

Joe snorts, shaking his head and turning to Finn, who-

-who is staring, wide-eyed, a little shell-shocked, at the door that has just closed. Even as Joe watches, Finn’s face falls, his anger clear in the way his lips tighten, his eyes - darkened now to the hue of a stormy sky - hardening as he watches the kitchen door. His jaw twitches, mouth opening once, twice, before he manages a strained, “Seth?” His voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the conversations of the strangers around them, over the upbeat pop music playing overhead.

For the first time in a long time, Joe is at a loss.

“I don’t know if he’s yours.”

“But you think he might be.” Finn’s voice is still tight, his jaw clenched. “You didn’t-” He breaks off, swallows hard. “You didn’t even mention-”

_I didn’t want you to get your hopes up, just in case he isn’t. I didn’t want you to be here, not until I knew._

“No,” Joe says instead. “I didn’t.”

The other customers keep shifting around them, the music continues playing. Finn is still staring.

“He’s- He looks the right age.”

Joe only nods. “Yeah.”

Seth pushes back through the door Finn is still looking at, doe eyes amused as he ushers the ponytail girl back to the kitchen. There’s a flash of a young girl with blue hair flipping them off as they laugh at her before the two disappear from eyesight.

Finn’s eyes are still dark, still angry, still… hurt, Joe realizes, and he’s nearly shocked breathless at the sudden _guilt_ that overwhelms him, a punch to the gut no amount of training can defend against. His oldest friend clenches his jaw, but doesn’t take his gaze from the kid, even as he speaks. “I’m not pleased with you.”

Joe can’t help himself and scoffs at the clear understatement. “You’re _pissed_.”

“I am.” Seth is smiling again ( _when does this kid_ not _smile_ , Joe wonders to himself), offering gentle suggestions for a drink to a fidgeting teenage girl when she seems too nervous to speak; Finn’s expression is the softest Joe has ever seen it, his lips breaking their vow to stay stern at Joe’s small betrayal, turning upward. “Do you believe he’s _my_ Seth?”

Seth’s laugh spreads throughout the small space, loud and bright (and not _nearly_ as obnoxious as the _cackle_ Joe has been subjected to the few times he’s come in when no one else was inside, the kid dropping cheesy jokes and one-liners; it is truly _god-awful_ ). “I think, yeah.” He remembers his thought from the first morning he’d met Seth, how he’d reminded Joe of Finn with his easy smile...

“How long?” _How long have you been lying to me by omission?_

Joe doesn’t lie now. “A few weeks.”

Finn’s jaw clenches once more, but he relaxes quickly enough. “I’ve trusted you since I was fifteen,” he says, and Joe looks at him. Finn’s eyes are finally away from Seth - only for a moment, a quick glance before they return to the barista - and they’re still dark with upset, but the Irishman doesn’t look angry now. He continues, “I’ll trust that you had a good reason not to tell me just yet - that you were planning to, at some point,” and something in Joe’s chest loosens, his breath coming a little easier.

“We still don’t know if he’s yours.”

“No,” Finn says. “ _I_ know.”

(Finn goes to the counter by himself, that soft expression still plastered on his face, those doe eyes Seth never seems to turn off doing the same slow once-over they’d given Joe those weeks ago, his smile ever-bright, and when he asks a name for the order, Joe sees him freeze, mahogany meeting the sea as they each stare at the other, the rest of the world ceasing to exist.)

*

Joe decides that real estate is for the fucking birds, kicks the rung of the ladder he’s been on for the last two years and watches it crash to the ground, but not before he takes out a loan and goes through one of his colleagues to purchase one of the empty buildings for sale on the same street as _Cesaro’s_.

He takes the requisite classes for a business major, learns all he can, using his precious free time to gut the interior of the building (a former gym, he is told; he contemplates opening the same, keeping his expenses on the lower end by only fixing up the joint, but nixes the thought pretty quickly). Finn and Seth - who are disgusting and completely attached at the goddamn hip (Joe considers pouring a pitcher of ice water on them every time he catches them slinking down the hallway, returning with swollen lips and pleased smiles) - make time to help him, Karl and Luke (two bald, bearded bastards Finn somehow befriended in his first year of college and who have been permanent sidekicks ever since) dropping by after their day at the construction site is finished.

Joe decides to open a bar.

*

Joe catches himself staring, sometimes, at the way Finn looks at Seth, at the pure _content_ in his eyes, the relaxed line of his shoulders, the smile that seems even more blinding than normal. He wonders, more than once, if it’s just _the honeymoon phase_ , but - three years later - they’re still the same, still bright-eyed and moony over each other, moving like the other is their sun and they’re caught in orbit; even when they argue, they’re completely in sync with each other.

It’s disgusting.

(His Name burns like a brand over his heart.)

*

_Joe’s._

He’s never had something so completely _his_ before and - even after being open for just over two years - he still can’t believe that he did it.

Paige is behind the bar, making friendly conversation with the regulars, teeth on display with her usual welcoming smile, while Becky makes the floor rounds, clearing away empty bottles and mugs, tossing her two cents into every conversation that hits her ear.

“Take over for a minute, boss?” Becky requests as she passes by, full trays effortlessly balanced. “Gotta wash up some glassware.”

Joe grunts, which the redhead takes as the agreement she knows it is and disappears through into the kitchen.

Paige slides three beer bottles over the counter to him, nods at a booth near the door. “Bombshell, Dark Chocolate, and Puppy Eyes.”

Sighing, Joe takes the beers. “Must you?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Surly Brows.”

Bombshell and - Christ help him - _Dark Chocolate_ are facing him as he approaches the table, a gorgeous blonde with streaks of pink and blue peeking out from underneath and a clean-shaven, no-nonsense-looking black man who locks onto Joe with sharp eyes. Joe bristles, but sets the bottles down gently enough; none break, anyway.

Another man says a soft, “Thank you,” voice warm enough that Joe _hears_ the smile before he breaks his gaze away from the first man (and _what is it with this guy_ ), turning to look at the second and-

 _Puppy Eyes_ is, perhaps, Paige’s most fitting name yet. His are dark, a deep and _soulful_ brown, flecks of honey and caramel near the edges of the irises highlighted just enough by the soft amber lighting above the booth; long lashes, black and full, cast spider-like shadows over defined cheekbones.

Joe’s lips curve into an easy smile, his own voice a low rumble. “Any time.”

“Yeah, it’s literally _your job_ , man.”

Joe’s eyes cut back to the other man, but before he can verbally _eviscerate_ him, Puppy Eyes interjects with a scolding, “Ced, don’t be rude,” drawing Joe’s attention back easily. He allows a wolfish grin to spread over his face, delighting at the gentle flush of the other’s cheeks.

“He’s just cranky because he had his poly-sci final today; don’t worry about him, ‘Stafa.”

A sudden shock rocks its way through Joe’s body, needle-sharp pin pricks radiating from his spine, outward. A sliver of something curls over his heart, exactly where his Name rests, warm and light and comforting… like _home_. “‘Stafa,” he eventually manages to speak. He wonders if he sounds as dumbfounded as he feels, if he looks like an idiot with the way he’s staring, slack-jawed, at a customer; he has a flash memory of Finn, his attention captured by a sweet-faced barista, a stranger with a gap-toothed smile and Finn’s Name on his body. “That’s an unusual name.”

 _‘Stafa_ ’s smile is wide and bright, a sunbeam breaking through the clouds on a rainy day. “Just a nickname,” he chuckles, taking one of the bottles and opening it, passing it to the blonde before grabbing his own. Those dark eyes never leave Joe’s, as if he’s _waiting_ for something. “It’s actually Mustafa.”

Joe’s breath stops short, his Name flares hot, and the rest of him… _settles_ , calms, as if the only thing he’d ever known before this moment was madness.

“I wondered if I’d meet you tonight,” _Mustafa_ is saying when the band around Joe’s lungs breaks and blessed oxygen returns. The young man’s eyes glitter as they roam the bigger man’s face, like stars in the night sky. (Joe vividly remembers Finn making such a comparison about Seth; the smack he’d aimed at the back of the Irishman’s head had stung his palm.) He grins, breath escaping in a laugh. “I thought the name of the place might bring some good luck.”

There’s a feminine squeal over a muttered _can’t believe this_ from the forgotten side of the table, followed by a pained grunt. “Hey, so we’re gonna go… over there,” the blonde says slyly; Joe can picture the wink she’s undoubtedly throwing at Mustafa over her shoulder as she pushes their companion from his seat, following after and directing him to the bartop.

Mustafa tells him, a hint of shyness in his voice as Joe continues to stare, “I’ve been waiting to meet you my whole life, as cheesy as that sounds.” The way he bites his lip, an embarrassed flush flooding his cheeks, is what breaks Joe.

“That’s a couple decades of hype to live up to,” he muses, voice rough. “I hope I haven’t already disappointed you.”

“Never,” his Named breathes; only his mother has ever looked at Joe with such awe, such _adoration_. “It’s nice to meet you, Joseph.”

Joe’s heart pounds against his ribcage, desperate to offer itself to the one it’s been destined to belong to.

“Call me Joe.”


End file.
